THE STRANGE BEHAVIOUR OF GEORGE ST. MABYN
One was a tall, stylishly dressed, handsome girl, of striking
appearance. I had almost called her a woman, for although she was
still young, her appearance could not be called strictly girlish. She
might be about twenty-five years of age, and her face, though free from
lines, suggested a history. I thought, too, that there was a lack of
frankness in her face, and that she had a furtive look in her eyes.
There was nothing else in her appearance, however, which suggested
this. She gave me a pleasant greeting, and expressed the hope that we
should have a good meeting in the little town near Granitelands, which
was the name of Lord Granville's house.
'I have heard such tremendous things about you, Captain Luscombe,' she
said, 'that I am quite excited. Report has it that you are quite an
orator.'
'Report is a lying jade,' I replied; 'still, I suppose since the people
at the War Office think I am no use as a fighter, they must use me to
persuade others to do their bit.'
'Of course I am going,' she laughed, 'although, personally, I don't
like the Army.'
'Not like the Army, Norah!' It was the other girl who spoke, and who
thus drew my attention to her.
I was not much impressed by Lorna Bolivick when I had been first
introduced to her, but a second glance showed me that she was by far
the more interesting of the two. In one sense, she looked only a
child, and I judged her to be about nineteen or twenty years of age.
She had all a child's innocence, and _naïveté_, too; I thought she
seemed as free from care as the lambs I had seen sporting in the
meadows, or the birds singing among the trees. I judged her to be just
a happy-go-lucky child of nature, who had lived among the shoals of
life, and had never realized its depths. Her brown eyes were full of
laughter and fun. Her frank, untrammelled ways suggested a creature of
impulse.
'That girl never had a care in her life,' I reflected; 'she's just a
happy kid who, although nearly a woman in years, is not grown up.'
I soon found myself mistaken, however. Something was said, I have
forgotten what, which evidently moved her, and her face changed as if
by magic. The look of carelessness left her in a moment, her great
brown eyes burned with a new light, her face revealed possibilities
which I had not dreamt of. I knew then that Lorna Bolivick could feel
deeply, that she was one who heard voices, and had plumbed the depths
of life which were unknown to the other.
She was not handsome, a passing observer would not even call her
pretty, but she had a wondrous face.
'Do you like my name, Captain Luscombe?' she asked.
'It is one of the most musical I know,' I replied.
'I don't like it,' she laughed. 'You see, in a way it gives me such a
lot to live up to. I suppose dad was reading Blackmore's great novel
when I was born, and so, although all the family protested, he insisted
on my being called Lorna. But I'm not a bit like her. She was gentle,
and winsome, and beautiful, and I am not a bit gentle, I am not a bit
winsome, and I am as ugly as sin,--my brothers all tell me so.
Besides, in spite of the people who talk so much about Lorna Doone, I
think she was insipid,--a sort of wax doll.'
Just then we heard the tooting of a motor horn, and turning, saw a car
approaching the house.
'There's George St. Mabyn,' cried Sir Roger. 'You're just in time,
George,--I was wondering if you would be in time for our early dinner.'
Immediately afterwards, I was introduced to a young fellow about
twenty-eight years of age, who struck me as a remarkably good specimen
of the English squire class. He had, as I was afterwards told,
conducted himself with great bravery in Belgium and France, and had
been mentioned in the dispatches. I quickly saw that Sir Roger
Granville had been right when he said that George St. Mabyn was deeply
in love with Norah Blackwater. In fact, he took no trouble to hide the
fact. He flushed like a boy as he approached her, and then, as I
thought, his face looked pained as he noticed her cold greeting. They
were evidently well known to each other, however, as he called her by
her Christian name, and assumed the attitude of an old friend.
I did not think Lorna Bolivick liked him. Her greeting was cordial
enough, and yet I thought I detected a certain reserve; but of course
it might be only my fancy. In any case, they were nothing to me. I
was simply a bird of passage, and would, in all probability, go away on
the morrow, never to see them again.
During the informal and somewhat hurried evening meal which had been
prepared, I found myself much interested in the young squire. He had a
frank, boyish manner which charmed me, and in spite of his being still
somewhat of an invalid, his fresh, open-air way of looking at things
was very pleasant.
'By the way, Luscombe,' said Sir Roger, as the ladies rushed away to
their rooms to prepare for their motor drive, 'tell St. Mabyn about
that fellow we were talking of to-day; he'll be interested.'
'It's only a man I met with in Plymouth some time ago, who has lost his
memory,' I responded.
'Lost his memory? What do you mean?'
I gave him a brief outline of the story I have related in these pages,
and then added: 'It is not so strange after all; I have heard of
several cases since, where, through some accident, or shock, men have
been robbed of the past. In some cases their memory has returned to
them suddenly, and they have gone back to their people, who had given
them up for dead. On the other hand, I suppose there have been lots
who have never recovered.'
'The thing that struck me,' said Sir Roger, 'was the possibility of a
very interesting _dénouement_ in this case. I was chairman of the
meeting at Plymouth, where the fellow enlisted, and he struck me as an
extraordinary chap. He had all the antiquity of Adam on his face, and
yet he might have been young. He had the look of a gentleman, too, and
from what Luscombe tells me, he is a gentleman. But there it is; he
remembers nothing, the past is a perfect blank to him. What'll happen,
if his memory comes back?'
'Probably nothing,' said St. Mabyn; 'he may have had the most humdrum
past imaginable.'
'Of course he may, but on the other hand there may be quite a romance
in the story. As I said to Luscombe, he may have a wife, or a
sweetheart, who has been waiting for him for years, and perhaps given
him up as dead. Think of his memory coming back, and of the meeting
which would follow! Or supposing he is an heir to some estate, and
somebody else has got it? Why, George, think if something like that
had happened to your brother Maurice! It might, in fact it _would_
alter everything. But there are the motors at the door; we must be
off.'
He turned toward the door as he spoke, and did not see George St.
Mabyn's face; but I did. It had become drawn and haggard, while in his
eyes was a look which suggested anguish.
In spite of myself, a suspicion flashed across my mind. Of course the
thing was improbable, if not impossible. But, perhaps influenced by
Sir Roger's insistence upon the romantic possibilities of the story, I
could not help thinking of it. There could be no doubt, too, that
George St. Mabyn looked positively ghastly. A few minutes before, he
looked ruddy and well, but now his face was haggard, as if he were in
great pain.
Of course it was all nonsense; nevertheless I caught myself constantly
thinking about it on my way to the meeting. In fact, so much did it
occupy my attention that Lorna Bolivick, who sat with me in the car,
laughingly suggested that I was a dull companion, and was evidently
thinking more about my speech than how to be agreeable to a lady.
'St. Mabyn ought to be the speaker, not I,' I said. 'He has been to
the front, and knows what real fighting means.'
'Oh, George can't speak,' she replied laughingly; 'why, even when he
addressed his tenants, after Maurice was killed, he nearly broke down.'
'What sort of fellow was Maurice?' I asked.
'Oh, just splendid. Everybody loved Maurice. But he ought not to have
stayed in the Army.'
'Why?'
'Because,--because--oh, I don't know why, but it didn't seem right.
His father was old and feeble when he went away, and as he was the heir
he ought to have stayed at home and looked after him, and the estate.
But he would go. There were rumours about trouble in Egypt, and
Maurice said he wanted to see some fighting. I suppose it was his
duty, too. After all, he was a soldier, and when his regiment was
ordered abroad, he had to go. But it seems an awful shame.'
'What kind of a looking fellow was he?'
'I don't think I am a judge; I was only a kiddy at the time, and people
said I made an idol of Maurice. But to me he was just splendid, just
the handsomest fellow I ever saw. He had such a way with him, too; no
one could refuse him anything.'
'I suppose he was engaged to Miss Blackwater?'
The girl was silent. Evidently she did not wish to talk about it.
'Were the two brothers fond of each other?' I asked.
'Oh, yes, awfully fond. The news of Maurice's death almost killed
George. You see, it happened not long after his father's death. You
have no idea how he was cut up; it was just horrible to see him. But
he's got over it now. It nearly broke my heart too, so I can quite
understand what George felt. But this must be very uninteresting to
you.'
'On the other hand, it is very interesting. Did you tell me that
George St. Mabyn was engaged to Miss Blackwater?'
'No, I didn't tell you that.'
'Is he going to be?'
I knew I was rather overstepping the bounds of good taste, but the
question escaped me almost before I was aware.
'I don't know. Oh, won't it be lovely when the war is over! You think
it will be over soon, don't you?'
'I am afraid not,' I said; 'as far as I can see, we are only at the
beginning of it.'
'Have you reason for saying that?'
'The gravest,' I replied; 'why do you ask?'
'Only that I feel so ashamed of myself. Here are you going to a
meeting to-night to persuade men to join the Army, while some of us
women do practically nothing. But I'm going to; I told dad I should,
only this morning, but he laughed at me. He said I should stay at home
and stick to my knitting.'
'What did you tell him you were going to do?'
'Train as a nurse. But he wouldn't hear of it. He said it was not a
fit thing for a young girl to nurse wounded men. But if they are
wounded for their country, surely we women ought to stop at nothing.
But here we are at the hall. Mind you make a good speech, Captain
Luscombe; I am going to be an awfully severe critic.'
After the meeting, George St. Mabyn returned with us to Granitelands,
and Sir Roger, in talking about the men who had volunteered for service
that night, again referred to the meeting at Plymouth, and to the man
who had enlisted. He also again insisted upon the possible romantic
outcome of the situation. Again I thought I saw the haunted look in
George St. Mabyn's eyes, and I fancied that the cigar he held between
his fingers trembled.
Miss Blackwater, however, showed very little interest in the story, and
seemed to be somewhat bored by its recital. Lorna Bolivick, however,
was greatly interested.
'And do you mean to say,' she asked, 'that you don't know where he is?'
'I have not the slightest idea.'
'And aren't you going to find out?'
'If I can, certainly.'
'Why,--why,'--and she spoke in a childish, impetuous way--'I think it
is just cruel of you. If I were in your place, I wouldn't rest until I
had found him. I would hunt the whole Army through.'
'I should have a long job,' I replied. 'Besides, he may not have
joined the Army.'
'But he has,--of course he has. He could not help himself. It is your
duty to be with him, and to help him. I think you are responsible for
him.'
Of course every one laughed at this.
'But I _do_!' she insisted. 'It was not for nothing that they met like
that. Mr. Luscombe was meant to meet him, meant to help him. It was
he who persuaded him to join the Army, and now it is his bounden duty
to find him out, wherever he is. Why, think of the people who may be
grieving about him! Here he is, a gentleman, with all a gentleman's
instincts, an ordinary private; and of course having no memory he'll,
in a way, be helpless, and may be led to do all sorts of foolish
things. I mean it, Captain Luscombe; I think it's just--just awful of
you to be so careless.'
Again there was general laughter, and yet the girl's words made me feel
uneasy. Although I could not explain it, it seemed to me that some
Power higher than our own had drawn us together, that in some way this
man's life would be linked with mine, and that I should have to take my
part in the unravelling of a mystery.
All this time, George St. Mabyn had not spoken. He sat staring into
vacancy, and what he was thinking about it was impossible to tell. Of
course the thoughts which, in spite of myself, haunted my mind, were
absurd. If I had not seen that ashen pallor come to his face, and
caught the haunted look in his eyes, when earlier in the evening Sir
Roger Granville had almost jokingly associated the unknown man with
Maurice St. Mabyn, I do not suppose such foolish fancies would have
entered-my mind. But now, although I told myself that I was
entertaining an absurd suspicion, that suspicion would not leave me.
I looked for a resemblance between him and Paul Edgecumbe, but could
find none. Was he, I wondered, in doubt about his brother's death?
Had he entered into possession on insufficient proof? Many strange
things happened in the East; soldiers had more than once been reported
to be dead, and then turned up in a most remarkable way. Had George
St. Mabyn, in his desire to become owner of the beautiful old house I
had seen, taken his brother's death for granted, on insufficient
grounds, and had not troubled about it since?
'Promise me,' said Lorna Bolivick, in her impetuous way, 'that you will
never rest until you find this man again! Promise me that you will
befriend him!' and she looked eagerly into my eyes as she spoke.
'Of course I will,' I said laughingly.
'No, but that won't do. Promise me that you will look for him as if he
were your own brother!'
'That's a pretty large order. But why should you be so interested in
this stranger?'
'I never give reasons,' she laughed, 'they are so stupid. But you
_will_ promise me, won't you?'
'Of course I will,' I replied.
'That's a bargain, then.'
'When are you leaving this neighbourhood?' asked George St. Mabyn, when
presently he was leaving the house.
'To-morrow afternoon,' I replied. 'They are working me pretty hard, I
can tell you.'
'Won't you look me up to-morrow morning?' he asked. 'There's a man
staying with me whom you'd like to know. I tried to persuade him to
come to the meeting to-night, but he did not feel up to it. He is
convalescing at my place; he's had a baddish time. He could tell you
some good stories, too, that would help you in this recruiting stunt.'
'By all means,' said Sir Roger, to whom I looked, as St. Mabyn spoke.
'I can send you over in the car.'
The next day, about eleven o'clock, I started to pay my promised visit,
and passed through the same beautiful countryside which had so appealed
to me before. I found that St. Mabyn's house was not quite so large as
Granitelands, but it was a place to rejoice in nevertheless. It was
approached by a long avenue of trees, which skirted park lands where
deer disported themselves. Giant oaks studded the park, and the house,
I judged, was built in the Elizabethan period. An air of comfort and
homeliness was everywhere; the grey walls were lichen-covered, and the
diamond-paned, stone-mullioned windows seemed to suggest security and
peace.
'I wonder why he wanted me to come here?' I reflected, as the car drew
up at the old, ivy-covered porch.